


like fresh plates and clean slates, our future is white (new year's resolutions reset tonight)

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t the quietest New Year’s Eve they’ve ever had. </p><p>In fact, it’s among the loudest. Which is surprising, considering the year they’d spent it in the Boiler Room at Sci-Tech. Not that Jemma remembers too much about that particular evening or party –thanks to copious amounts of alcohol consumed, of course – save that it was loud. But, apparently, the Playground knows how to throw a party.</p><p>(Or, FitzSimmons celebrate New Year's at the Playground.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like fresh plates and clean slates, our future is white (new year's resolutions reset tonight)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anneweaver (camseydavis)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anneweaver+%28camseydavis%29).



> I wrote this for Laura (camseydavis), one of my favorite people in the world, based on one of her adorable headcanons. Additionally, "SHIELD New Year's Eve Party" was prompted to me on tumblr by monicathereyes.
> 
> It was just supposed to be a drabble, but then it passed 1k, and I thought I might as well put it up on here! So, here we are. Hope you enjoy it! The title is from the song "Snow" by Sleeping At Last.

It isn’t the quietest New Year’s Eve they’ve ever had.

In fact, it’s among the loudest. Which is surprising, considering the year they’d spent it in the Boiler Room at Sci-Tech. Not that Jemma remembers too much about that particular evening or party, thanks to copious amounts of alcohol consumed, save that it was loud.

But, apparently, the Playground knows how to throw a party.

It’s a bit loud for Jemma’s taste, so she and Fitz linger in the periphery, away from the tall speakers someone’s dragged in, probably from Hunter’s room.

One hour to go, and the television broadcasts the 2016 New Year’s Rockin’ Eve, but no one’s really paying attention. Not that they should. Most anything is better, but no one’s pressed enough to change the channel.

Instead, they huddle around their plastic red solo cups like teenagers, sipping cheap alcohol and pretending they’re naive enough to believe that the new year is a clean slate. The tiny, de facto living room in the Playground has been cleared, all furniture pushed to the walls. Except for the low coffee table, which manages to be _more_ in the way than usual. Every few minutes or so, someone stumbles into it and swears under their breath.

It’s the first New Year’s either Jemma or Fitz has properly celebrated with the team. Last year, Trip’s loss had still been fresh, an open wound, and no one had felt much like celebrating anything. The year before that, they’d been too busy searching for the kidnapped Coulson to bother with the new year.

“This is kind of nice,” Jemma says, leaning close so he can hear over the booming music.

He nods. “Loud, but nice.”

“What?” she asks, brow furrowing.

“Loud, but nice,” he repeats, louder.

“I can’t hear—”

He just smiles, shaking his head. He moves closer, bumping her side. She nudges back.

A moment later, Daisy bounds over, just barely managing not to spill her drink.

“Have you guys seen Lincoln?” she asks, brightly. “It’s getting disturbingly close to midnight, and I can’t find him.”

Fitz shrugs.

“I think he said he was going to find the —what do you call them— the noisemakers,” Jemma says, over the din.

Daisy nods. Then, dipping her chin in a suggestive smile, “Excited for midnight?”

Fitz chokes a little on his drink.

“I, for one, am excited for the idea a new beginning and a fresh start,” Jemma says, primly, leaning into him.

Daisy raises a eyebrow. “Sure, you are.” Then, spotting Mack, “I’ll leave you two and your new beginnings alone,” she says, shifting back into the crowd, “but I expect all details on my desk by 8 o’clock sharp. Typed and stapled, not handwritten.” She shoots them a grin.

Jemma laughs, unable to keep a faint blush crawling up her neck as her eyes flicker to Fitz’s mouth, then away.

They haven’t spoken about the kiss, nor have they had an opportunity for a repeat performance. There simply hasn’t been time, or, rather, an appropriate moment. She knows Fitz especially doesn’t want to push things so soon after his return from the alien planet.

So they both look away, holding their breath.

Five minutes to go, and Coulson’s made another brief appearance; somehow, he’s managed to acquire a pointed party hat, which is already lopsided on his head. May looks particularly pleased with herself as she leans over to straighten it.

The room is packed with people, some they know, some they don’t. Some, they’ve never seen before.

“Who are all these people?” Jemma murmurs.

“I didn’t know we had so many people on base,” Fitz says. “Are all these people lab monkeys? Temps?”

Jemma snorts. “I don’t think SHIELD has temps.”

“True,” he says, thoughtful. “We’d have to kill them.”

“Who are we killing, and how do I get in on it?” Hunter asks, more than a little slurred. He leans a hand on the doorframe, his drink canting dangerously to the side.

Jemma laughs. “If we were planning on killing someone tonight, you definitely wouldn’t be invited along.”

“Because you’re drunk,” Fitz says, stating the obvious.

“M’not,” Hunter says. “That’s… that’s mean. And harsh.” He blinks, heavily. “Additionally, it’s New Year’s, which means it’s acceptable.”

“What’s your excuse every other night of the year?” Jemma asks, dryly.

He just puts a finger to his lips. “Shh. Shh.”

Fitz smothers a laugh behind his hand.

Hunter slides a hand back down the frame. “Party poopers.” Spying Bobbi across the room, he gives Fitz a heavy pat on the back. “The queen has arrived. I’ll see you guys later.”

One minute to go, and, across the room, Hunter kisses Bobbi early. She breaks into uncharacteristic giggles, and, next to them, an exasperated Joey rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Fitz just grins, leaning in closer to Jemma.

The whole room pumps their fists in the air with the countdown. When the countdown hits zero, Jemma gives a little jump. Across the room, people begin to turn to one another, from cheek kisses between friends, to playful pecks on the lips, to the more passionate. Jemma turns to him with an eager sort of cautiousness in her eyes, a gentle kind of hope.

The room slows down as she reaches a hand up to his cheek. Watching her carefully, he shifts closer, resting a hand on the back of her neck.

But, instead of leaning down to her lips, he simply presses his lips to her forehead. Her heart settles in her chest, emotions tangled between disappointment and a deep-seated warmth.

Then, “I love you,” he says, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear, his breath ghosting over her skin.

All the air leaves her in a whoosh.

“What did you say?” she asks, weakly.

The music booms, but she can’t hear it over the sound of her heart thumping in her ears. She shifts back to look at him, an expression of wonder on her face.  
“I just— I wanted this to be the year I said it,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, awkwardly. “Romantically, I mean. I planned to wait longer, but then I looked at you, and I—”

She presses her lips against his, rocking into him with such momentum that he stumbles back a step, into the stiff arm of the couch. She closes her eyes, winding her hand into his hair, It feels as though they’re in the center of everything, the eye of the storm, but the truth is that no one’s listening, no one sees. Except them.

She twists her fingers into his sweater, and he sighs into her mouth.

When they break apart, he looks bashful. “I’m sorry,” he says, “It just kind of— slipped out. I know we’ve said it before, but this— it’s different, and— I don’t want you to feel you have to say it back.”

Jemma breaks into a smile, running a thumb over his cheek. “Oh, you idiot.” He inclines his head, with a funny look. She leans in to kiss him again. Just before she does, “For the record,” she says, against his mouth, “I love you, too.”

———

It’s close to four in the morning by the time the last person stumbles off to bed, save Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz, who have opted for the soft leather couch. The speakers have gone finally quiet, and they’re stretched out, just tipsy enough to be sleepy and slow.

The television is still on, but muted. They’re half-watching, half-dozing, too comfortable to walk the thirty yards or so back to their rooms.

“You know, Fitz,” Jemma says, slowly, stretching comfortably beside him, “I think this was our best New Year’s yet.”

The pale light of the television illuminates his crooked smile. He reaches over to pluck a stray piece of confetti out of her hair. “You think so?” he asks.

“I do,” she says, smiling back.

A knowing look crosses his face. “So, then, we’ve finally managed to top the Great Boiler Room Escapade of 2004?” he teases.

She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “Oh, I think just about anything beats me immediately vomiting up Jell-O shots in the parking lot at one a.m.”

“Just think, we weren’t even of drinking age in the States,” Fitz sighs, leaning back into the couch. “So young. So unfettered.”

She peeps through her fingers, uncovering her face. “Mm. Do you ever miss those days?” she asks, almost wistful.

“Oh, all the time,” he says, winding a long strand of her hair around his finger. Then, “Well, some bits more than others. I could do without Dr. Vaughn, or the 200-question ethics exams. But--” He pauses. “We were very… hopeful. I miss that.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she says, earnestly, turning to face him better. “We can still be hopeful.”

“I know, I know,” he says, his eyes crinkling in a smile, inclining his head. “Just not naïve, which is mostly what we were then.”

“I mean it,” she says, seriously, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “This is our year.”

“You say that every year.”

“No, I don’t.”

He sighs, winding his hand into hers. “All right, all right.”

She smiles. “You know, whatever I may or may not remember about New Year’s 2004-- I remember a certain _someone_ looking particularly dashing.” She pauses. “Even if the effect was slightly ruined as he was holding my hair back while I threw up.”

He chuckles. “Jem, my hair was wild, and I think I wore the same sweater vest every day for days at a time. I don’t think dashing is the word you’re looking for.”

“Oh, you just don’t know,” she says, sagely, patting his cheek. “I know.”

He shakes his head, looking back to the muted television. People are still on the streets, doing whatever it is they have left to do at four-thirty in the morning, in the freezing cold. He, for one, is glad he’s right here, instead of anywhere else. Next to him, Jemma snuggles further into the couch, thinking the same.

“2016, here we come,” he says, quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥


End file.
